THE doctor's pretty housemaid stood waiting for me, with the street door open in her hand. Pouring
brightly into the hall, the morning light fell full on the face of Mr. Candy's assistant when I turned, and
looked at him.

It was impossible to dispute Betteredge's assertion that the appearance of Ezra Jennings, speaking
from a popular point of view, was against him. His gipsy complexion, his fleshless cheeks, his gaunt
facial bones, his dreamy eyes, his extraordinary particoloured hair, the puzzling contradiction between
his face and figure which made him look old and young both together--were all more or less calculated
to produce an unfavourable impression of him on a stranger's mind. And yet--feeling this as I certainly
did--it is not to be denied that Ezra Jennings made some inscrutable appeal to my sympathies, which I
found it impossible to resist. While my knowledge of the world warned me to answer the question which
he had put, acknowledging that I did indeed find Mr. Candy sadly changed, and then to proceed on
my way out of the house--my interest in Ezra Jennings held me rooted to the place, and gave him the
opportunity of speaking to me in private about his employer, for which he had been evidently on the
watch.

`Are you walking my way, Mr. Jennings?' I said, observing that he held his hat in his hand. `I am going
to call on my aunt, Mrs. Ablewhite.'

Ezra Jennings replied that he had a patient to see, and that he was walking my way.

We left the house together. I observed that the pretty servant girl--who was all smiles and amiability,
when I wished her good morning on my way out--received a modest little message from Ezra Jennings,
relating to the time at which he might be expected to return, with pursed-up lips, and with eyes which
ostentatiously looked anywhere rather than look in his face. The poor wretch was evidently no favourite
in the house. Out of the house, I had Betteredge's word for it that he was unpopular everywhere. `What
a life!' I thought to myself, as we descended the doctor's doorsteps.

Having already referred to Mr. Candy's illness on his side, Ezra Jennings now appeared determined
to leave it to me to resume the subject. His silence said significantly, `It's your turn now.' I, too, had my
reasons for referring to the doctor's illness: and I readily accepted the responsibility of speaking first.

`Judging by the change I see in him,' I began, `Mr. Candy's illness must have been far more serious than
I had supposed?'

`It is almost a miracle,' said Ezra Jennings, `that he lived through it.'

`Is his memory never any better than I have found it to-day? He has been trying to speak to me--'

`Of something which happened before he was taken ill?' asked the assistant, observing that I hesitated.

`Yes.'

`His memory of events, at that past time, is hopelessly enfeebled,' said Ezra Jennings. `It is almost to
be deplored, poor fellow, that even the wreck of it remains. While he remembers dimly plans that he
formed -- things, here and there, that he had to say or do before his illness -- he is perfectly incapable of
recalling what the plans were, or what the thing was that he had to say or do. He is painfully conscious
of his own deficiency, and painfully anxious, as you must have seen, to hide it from observation. If he
could only have recovered in a complete state of oblivion as to the past, he would have been a happier
man. Perhaps we should all be happier,' he added, with a sad smile, `if we could but completely forget!'

`There are some events surely in all men's lives,' I replied, `the memory of which they would be unwilling
entirely to lose?'